


Brouillé

by Nonexistenz, victorine



Series: Hannibal: The Alpha/Omega Remixes [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Will Graham, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Big Bang Challenge, Bonding, Canon Divergence, Digital Art, Episode: s01e04 Oeuf, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Hannibal Lecter, surprise heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 18:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19067839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonexistenz/pseuds/Nonexistenz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/pseuds/victorine
Summary: Unthinkingly, he reaches into the drawer and pulls out the top shirt, holding it to his face and breathing in. No bleach, only the faintest trace of salt sweat, and none of the bitter fear he had expected. Instead, what Hannibal inhales is the pure, unsuppressed scent of alpha.That’s all it takes. One. Deep. Breath.Alpha/Omega AU of the scene in Oeuf where Hannibal snoops in Will's home.





	Brouillé

**Author's Note:**

> Vic here - this is my entry for the Hannigram A/B/O Library's Big Bang 2019. I was partnered with [Nonexistenz](https://nonexistenz.tumblr.com/) who has made some fantastic art to go with this fic, which you can see as you scroll through the fic. Make sure to give them some love here or over on tumblr!
> 
> This is also a new instalment of my Alpha/Omega Remixes series (the first in over three years!). I've been wanting to write another of these fics for ages so thank you to my fellow Library mods for the excuse to do so. And thanks too, to ThisIsMyDesignHannibal, for relaying the story from FFT that there exists a deleted scene in which Hannibal does sniff Will's shirt while he's snooping, which inspired this story.

_“You’re sure this is ok? I can probably still call a neighbour, or hire a sitter maybe…”_

_“It’s no trouble at all, Will. I’m honoured that you would put such trust in me.”_

_“Well, um… I mean, you’re very, uh, trustworthy, Doctor.”_

_“Coming from you, I shall take that as the highest of compliments.”_

_“Ha, yeah… you probably should.”_

Hannibal can’t help but allow the slip of a smile as he parks in Will’s driveway, contemplating the conversation that had precipitated today’s visit. Will truly is charming, in his own jittery, unrefined way, and Hannibal finds himself enjoying his fumbling attempts at friendship far more than he had imagined. It is rather endearing, like a parent watching their child’s first awkward steps and imagining the day when they will stride into the world on steady, confident feet.

Admittedly, there is the appeal of exclusivity too – there are very few for whom Will Graham would go to the effort of attempting politeness. Fewer still he would trust with his home, and his pack. There is Alana, of course, upon whom Will clearly projects fantasies of a romantic nature, and whose unavailability for dog-sitting is the reason for Hannibal’s inheritance of the task. But Hannibal is reasonably certain she will reject any overtures from Will, citing conflicting professional impulses, and he can always nudge her thinking in that direction should it become necessary. He prefers Alana as an ever-ready playing piece, a pawn to be picked up whenever required, and so he encourages her belief that she does not currently have room in her life for a prolonged relationship. Much better to have her affections available to him, should they become useful.

He exits the car, in good spirits as he considers the success of the work he has put in with Will. The speed with which Will has come to trust and rely on him is pleasing, not to mention unexpected. Hannibal has never been in any doubt that he would eventually break down Will’s defences and gain unfettered access to that delightful brain of his, but he had believed it would take several months, perhaps even years of patient persuasion to reach that point. Instead, within only a few weeks they have achieved an unprecedented level of closeness, to the extent that Hannibal now sees more of Will than any of his other acquaintances or colleagues. A state of affairs he knows is true for isolated, anti-social Will as well.

The implied comparison between his circle of devoted hangers-on and Will’s canines, who come flooding through the door as it opens – clearly missing their alpha – amuses Hannibal. The sausages he has brought as offerings are accepted as eagerly as any feast he has presented and with as little thought to their true contents. He wonders how Will would feel about him feeding his beloved pack the flesh of his victims, and suspects he would be rather more upset by that than his own unwitting entrance into cannibalism. He’d rather like to see Will’s reaction to his family of strays being threatened… A note for another day, perhaps.

Hannibal feels no compunction in wandering through Will’s house, placing his hands all over Will’s belongings. It’s not as if he will ever know and Hannibal is hardly going to let such a golden opportunity slip through his fingers. One can tell so much, after all, from a person’s home – even his, he suspects, may have one too many racks of antlers for comfort, though he believes it reads more as “eccentric European” than “serial killer.” Will’s home is, just like its owner, utterly lacking in refinement but possessed of an unvarnished charm that Hannibal cannot help but appreciate. There are things he would change, of course – the untuned piano is a waste of a humble but decent instrument, and the spartan bed shoved into the corner is utterly unacceptable. Perhaps he should arrange for Will to be too drunk to drive home the next time they dine together, persuade him to stay in one of his guestrooms so that he might feel the benefit of a good mattress and linens with a thread count higher than double digits.

The house itself, though, is clean and neat, remarkably free of dog hair or smell, and Hannibal can see the appeal of such a sanctuary for someone like Will. The world presses ruthlessly on him from all sides; here, there is space to breathe and time to do it. Here, Will has no responsibility to anyone but himself and his pack.

He continues to drift through the room, taking in the pedestrian art and the eclectic literature that hints at the roots of Will’s lyricism. He recalls Will’s automatic, defensive ascent into his office library during their first session and thinks of how much more happily he might sit amongst the more personal collection at Hannibal’s home. He would be fearful to touch the rare editions, at first, but easily coaxed into pulling out a particularly interesting volume, eyes lighting with hunger and joy. He would soon lose himself in a novel, or perhaps some poetry, and Hannibal would quietly draw out his sketchbook and capture the moment, smiling indulgently when Will caught him, protesting that he could not stop himself from immortalising this moment between them. Later, he would draw from memory the look on Will’s face at his words, the blush on his cheeks, the hope in his eyes.

He bypasses Will’s untidy bed without a glance, instead homing in on the set of drawers which he imagines hold Will’s meagre, crease-filled wardrobe. He cannot imagine Will taking the time to hang any of the garments he clothes himself with, though he must have at least one suit, given his occasional duty to appear in court. Hannibal shudders briefly at the thought that he might turn up as an expert witness clothed in plaid and that dowdy blazer he wears to teach in. He must find out if this is the case and gently persuade Will of the value of a good suit. Or, if at all possible, convince him to let Hannibal introduce him to a decent tailor, perhaps secretly take care of the bill, let Will protest the gift but eventually accept with a shy smile…

Inside the drawer is a sight that makes Hannibal smile himself. Will’s clothing might be plain and utilitarian, and often covered with creases, but that, apparently is no reason not to fold each item with the same care and attention Hannibal would give to one of his own bespoke suits. Rows of immaculate white t-shirts, placed with the same precision one would find in a high-end boutique, catch Hannibal’s eye in particular. He recognises them as the same items Will was wearing the morning Hannibal surprised him with breakfast, the morning their great adventure began, and surmises that this drawer holds Will’s nightwear. He supposes that Will prefers to keep these items near, in case of the need to change following one of his nightmares. He wonders if Will bleaches them to keep them so white, if the scent of his sweat and fear are still clutched deep within their fibres.

Unthinkingly, he reaches into the drawer and pulls out the top shirt, holding it to his face and breathing in. No bleach, only the faintest trace of salt sweat, and none of the bitter fear he had expected. Instead, what Hannibal inhales is the pure, unsuppressed scent of alpha.

That’s all it takes. One. Deep. Breath.

The effect is instant and catastrophic. Hannibal feels a sigh, verging on a moan, force its way past his chest and through his lips without permission. The sound of it as it escapes jolts through his system and he becomes aware of the chemical processes already beginning to affect him. Soon, his skin will warm and slick will trace the inner line of his thighs.

Will’s scent is honey and blood orange, salt water and leaves on the bud, and it is tempting as the red ribbon of a vein to Hannibal’s instincts. As deadly as the first glimmer of recognition in a pair of wide eyes. It has reached inside him, taken hold of his hormones and dragged them roughly to the surface, bringing with them an unwanted and unacceptable heat.

He must leave, before he is overcome and escape becomes an impossibility. He has to force Will’s shirt away from himself, a whine coming loose at the loss of the alpha’s scent, but is then obliged to reach for it once more, the option to simply stuff it haphazardly into the drawer it came from not in fact an option at all. He cannot leave a trace of his invasion. What had he been thinking when he pulled it out? 

He stops for a second, draws himself up to his fullest height, and pushes out a breath. It is a moment he can ill afford but nor can he continue in this skittish state of mind – he must be able to function clearly long enough to make it back to his home. The thought of the long, long drive there is torturous, and Hannibal feels sweat begin to prickle against his collar as a little voice in the back of his head suggests that it would be so much easier to wait for Will to return, to let him take care of everything. Will would not take advantage, after all, would respect Hannibal’s wishes above all else.

But what, exactly, Hannibal’s wishes will be once within proximity to Will, he is worryingly uncertain. He can hardly deny, now, that his fascination with the alpha is more than merely psychological – clearly, some deep-seated attraction has been festering without his awareness and the implications of that will have to be parsed and dealt with once he returns to clarity. Simply put, though, he suspects that his inner omega wants little more than to be fucked, bred and bonded enthusiastically by Will Graham, and he isn’t at all certain that the rest of him disagrees. The little whimper that emerges from him at the thought of spreading his legs for his alpha tends to suggest not.

Indulgence shimmers before him, a sweet and easy surrender, but he shuts out his body’s pleas and forces himself to return Will’s catalytic shirt to its former pristine state, placing it gently into the drawer whence it came. He even manages not to make a noise as he does so, and takes no small satisfaction in the reinstatement of his self-control. All his efforts are rendered pointless, though, as he turns towards the front door and realises that in order to reach it he must pass by a far greater obstacle.

Will’s bed.

Will’s bed, which he sleeps and dreams and sweats in.

Will’s bed, which nightly cradles his body and catches his scent.

Will’s bed, in which he surely touches himself, hand fitted around his knot, imagining the tight, wet heat of an omega surrounding him.

Hannibal has crawled onto it before he has even finished these thoughts, shamelessly rubbing up against Will’s sheets and burying his face into the alpha’s pillow. The scent of him is indeed sharper here, and fuller, composed of mineral deposits and lingering pheromones, and it makes Hannibal’s teeth ache. He bites down on the pillow beneath him, wanting it to be Will’s throat, the disappointment when it isn’t hitting him full in the gut.

Why isn’t Will here? He’s in heat and his alpha should be here.

He bucks his hips against the mattress and slides into a lordosis pose, head down, ass up, the perfect composition to bring any alpha running.

But his alpha is in another state, he remembers, some lucidity returning with the painful thought. It will likely be hours, if not days, before Will returns. He could call, could struggle to his phone and beg Will to come to him. But there is a good chance Will would refuse. Or worse, call in some doctor or heat specialist to “take care of him.” Unacceptable. He will have Will or… there is no or. He will have Will to mate and that is that. And the best way to ensure it is to make sure the first thing Will is confronted with upon his homecoming is a heat-stricken omega desperate for the relief of his knot.

Even Will Graham couldn’t resist that…

* * *

Will’s mind is still so consumed with the lost boys case when he finally makes it back home, that he doesn’t even notice Dr Lecter’s car until he’s parked behind it. When he does emerge from his thoughts of broken families and wayward kids, his breath catches in his throat as he imagines the reasons why Dr Lecter would be here. It has to be bad news, the Doctor wouldn’t simply be there to welcome him home, he doesn’t even know Will is coming back today. A problem with Abigail, maybe, or one of his pack had got sick and Dr Lecter had been forced to stay… but he would have called Will if that was the case, surely. Fuck, maybe one of the dogs died and Hannibal hadn’t wanted to tell Will over the phone. Buster’s always running off into danger, and Beatrice will try to eat almost anything she decides smells tasty, regardless of how toxic it looks…

Will charges out of his car and up the steps, barely resisting the urge to kick in his own front door when he realises he doesn’t need to give Dr Lecter any more reasons to think he’s nuts. He stands on the porch for a second, trying to gather himself, taking a deep, deep breath.

_Fuck._

How had he not registered _that smell_ before? It explodes along his senses like overripe fruit finally giving to teeth and tongue. Inside his house… for some inexplicable reason there’s an omega in heat inside his house and he’s already half-hard and panting with the smell of them.

Should he call a heat service? Or the cops? A doctor? Fuck, maybe that’s why Hannibal is here, he’d come across some poor, lost omega while walking the dogs and had brought them back to the house for their own safety. Is he… is he taking care of them right now? Hannibal’s an omega himself so he has no knot to cool a heat with but Will is certain he’s capable of improvisation, with his clever hands and curling mouth.

The thought of Hannibal servicing an omega _in Will’s house_ draws a growl from him. The idea is wrong in so many ways Will can’t begin to deal with them. Instead, he shoves through the door and steels himself for what he might see.

He certainly hadn’t expected that his first sight would be his pack, ringed protectively around his bed and looking at him as they never have before, like he is the enemy. Will would have been upset – hell, he’d have been devastated – at that, if it weren’t for the second sight that greets him: Dr Lecter, soaked through with sweat and slick, glistening and heavy-lidded, writhing on the nest he’s constructed on Will’s bed.

The nest he’s clearly created from Will’s bedding and clothes. A literal feathered nest, Will notices, flecks of white having flown from the pillow that Hannibal had apparently ripped to shreds. His mind supplies an image of Hannibal’s sharp teeth digging into the pillow, seeking out Will’s scent, tearing it to pieces when it doesn’t satisfy the way Will’s flesh would have, the way claiming him would have.

His mouth waters.

All around, the house shows signs of Hannibal’s fevered search for material for his nest. Drawers have been pulled out and left wide open, cupboards ransacked for blankets, even the cushions have been stolen from his armchairs. Only one thing seems to have been saved – one of Will’s undershirts, which is now stretched temptingly across Hannibal’s broad shoulders and heaving chest, his sweat soaking in to muddle with the remnants of Will’s. He’s otherwise naked, flat on his back, long legs spread and hips tilted to allow three fingers to piston in and out of his slick-sodden hole.

Will’s head swims. The scent of heat had been strong enough on the porch, but in here it is potent, choking, thick and heavy and _everywhere_. Every inch of Will’s home is coated in Hannibal’s scent and Will realises with a distant jolt that Hannibal must have rubbed himself against every surface he could reach, impregnating Will’s belongings with himself. Ensuring that Will would be enveloped by him, saturated by him, the moment he stepped foot into his home.

Will dismisses his pack with a _tsk_ , and they move aside to let him through, albeit with an uncharacteristic reluctance, their protective instincts clearly warring with the need to obey their alpha. They stay close but Will pays them no mind, every instinct focused on the omega before him, who is still unaware of his presence, still focused only on his own pleasure.

“Dr Lecter?” Will asks, only keeping his voice low and gentle through monumental effort. Despite this, Hannibal’s head snaps up sharply as he realises there is an alpha in the room. He freezes, eyes wide and darting, and Will takes in the dubiously arousing sight of the omega’s every muscle tensing, finely balanced on the edge of fight or flight from the interloper. From the _threat_ , Will realises with a slow, dull horror. It’s not what he wants. He wants… wants… He tries to clear his head, suddenly unsure of what is happening here, of why he is still advancing on the bed, of why either of them is here.

Before panic can set in, one clear thought scythes through his mind and he grabs it, instinctively as the fish mouths the hook – _protect your mate_. He focuses on the stricken omega before him and tries again, using the name he has only previously been brave enough to call the Doctor in the privacy of his mind.

“Hannibal?”

To his relief, this seems to get through enough of Hannibal’s defences to let him calm slightly, the omega’s shoulders dropping a little and his eyes gaining focus. “Alpha?” he asks.

Will growls, arousal pushing through his relief, causing Hannibal to buck his hips and more slick to slide from him. “Try again,” he orders, leaning in but not yet touching. Touching will have to be earned.

A blissful, dopey smile blooms on Hannibal’s face, his lips parting to show his jagged teeth, the fangs that would almost be more suited to an alpha. “ _Will_ ,” he breathes, sliding down the bed until he is beneath the alpha leaning over it, arching his back languidly until they’re only millimetres from contact.

“Good boy,” Will rumbles, his hands sliding down to wrap around Hannibal’s hips, finding them unexpectedly slim, fitting easily into the cradle of his palms. All of Hannibal’s bulk was apparently thanks to the illusion of clever tailoring, because the omega straining against Will’s hold is lithe and lean, long legs and arms almost coltish with their fine musculature and wiry strength. Will’s fairly certain that, when in his right mind, Hannibal would have little trouble throwing him around, but right now he’s pliable and docile, and Will’s instincts are telling him to show off his own strength, to impress the omega he wants so badly. He grabs hold of Hannibal and drags him right to the edge of the mattress, placing both hands either side of his head and gazing down into glazed eyes, searching for a spark of awareness within their depths.

“Will,” gasps Hannibal, “I want. Now.” He flexes against Will, rolling his hips in so deliberate a manner that there can be no mistake about his desires. It’s enough to dispel the last fraying thread of Will’s restraint.

Will descends upon him, pushing him deep down into the mattress and pinning him there as he brings their mouths together. He kisses Hannibal deep and firm, wanting to leave the omega in no doubt of his claim, of who he now belongs to – for this heat, at least, if not longer. Hannibal responds in kind, pressing up into Will as much as he is able, and Will groans as he feels the damp heat of him, near scorching even through his clothes. Soon, Will feels his hands move, his fingers scrabbling at Will’s shirt buttons, obviously desperate to remove the barrier between them. Will, in absolute agreement on this point, removes his own hands from where they are pinning Hannibal’s biceps to the bed and goes for his belt, removing it in a smooth, slick motion that belies the scratching desperation he feels inside. He rips open his button and fly, and is about to slide out of his pants when he feels Hannibal’s hands still, only halfway done with his shirt. There’s a moan next to his ear, and then Hannibal is pressing his face into Will’s bonding gland, evidently distracted from anything else by the pull of Will’s scent where it is most potent. He starts licking and sucking at Will’s skin, as if priming the area for his bite, and Will finds himself turning his head in order to give him more access, the idea of bonding with Hannibal suddenly — is it really all that suddenly? — the only thing he wants in the world.

Then Hannibal grazes the points of his fangs against Will’s skin and Will jolts back into motion as his knot begins to form in response to the thought of Hannibal’s teeth in his neck. Without dislodging Hannibal from his position, Will shoves his pants down around his thighs, his boxers going with them, with a ripping sound that suggests they won’t be salvageable. He braces himself against the bed and, feeling Hannibal spread his legs instinctively, slides himself deep into the warm, welcoming clutch of his mate. His knot has already grown large enough that he has to push to get it past Hannibal’s rim, despite it already being slick and stretched by his fingers, and both of them howl with satisfaction when it slides in, locking them together. And then Hannibal is biting down, breaching Will’s skin, claiming his blood, bonding his soul and both of them come, Hannibal’s legs wrapping tight around Will as they shudder through it together before Will fixes his own teeth to Hannibal’s neck and completes the bond.

Through the haze of hormones, blood and bliss, a voice in the back of Will’s head says, _No going back now._

Will purrs in response.

* * *

“Hannibal?”

“Yes?”

“I have something I need to ask you.”

“Of course, Will, anything you wish.”

“Ok. Did you fold my underwear into chrysanthemums?”

Hannibal lifts his head slightly to look over in the same direction as Will.

“You have an eye for origami, I see.”

“Photographic memory,” Will drawls, stretching out as if to make even more casual the tossed-off reference to his innate brilliance. “Read a book once,” he adds, pointlessly, flapping one hand in dismissal.

Hannibal feels an intense urge to ravish him once again, but lets it pass in deference to the worn-out state of their bodies and the still-undiscussed state of their bond. Instead, he drops his head back to the pillow, letting it fall a little closer to Will’s, a small concession to the insistent instinct that he should be wrapped around his new mate, enjoying the afterglow of their new connection. “I believe there may be a crane or two fashioned from your socks as well.” Will angles his head so Hannibal can see the bemused expression on his face and Hannibal essays a shrug. “I found myself in need of entertainment during my occasional lucid periods and, as you don’t possess a television and my concentration levels were not quite up to the collected works of Shakespeare, I improvised.”

Will smiles at this, clearly amused, but Hannibal can see the strain at the edges of his expression. “Say what you are thinking, Will,” he coaxes.

“You could have left,” Will eventually mutters, his chin dropping to his chest.

Hannibal turns onto his side and says, matter-of-fact, “No, I could not.”

Will pointedly avoids his eyes. “You could now.”

Hannibal moves closer, pressing himself all along the tense line of Will’s body. “ _No_ , I could not.”

Still Will refuses to meet his eyes, so Hannibal reaches out for Will’s hand and threads their fingers together, a grounding force and a reassurance all at once.

Will looks down at their joined hands and takes a deep breath. “I feel like I forced this on you,’ he says, voice flat and tinged with that self-accusation he so often falls into. “I’m not going to force you to stay, I’m not gonna drag you further into this.”

And, well, that is quite enough of that, Hannibal decides. Quick as if he were corralling prey, he flips himself up to straddle Will and pin him, thighs and wrists, to the bed. Will stares up at him, shocked and, if Hannibal is any judge – _and he is_ – more than a little bit aroused.

“My dear alpha,” he says sweetly and basks in the shudder the term produces beneath him, “if you truly believe for one moment that I allowed you to claim me without it being _exactly_ what I desired, then I fear _you_ will be the one to regret our union. Because you will have sorely underestimated me.”

Will gazes up at him, eyes lighting with something Hannibal might call awe, might call wonder, hopes he can call _faith_.

“Of all the things I’m feeling, Hannibal,” he says, voice rough and tone fervent, “regret isn’t one of them.”

“I’m exceedingly glad to hear it,” Hannibal says, lowering himself slowly to hover inches from Will’s lips. “But do let me know if you change your mind and I’ll endeavour to do something about it,” he adds, before laying both his body and a filthy kiss on Will that will hopefully wipe the alpha’s mind clear of any lingering insecurity.

He suspects, from the ferocious way Will returns the kiss, that he is successful on that front. Unfortunately, his attentions are apparently less effective in subduing Will’s natural curiosity.

“How did this happen?”

Hannibal sighs and sits back on his haunches, letting himself pout very slightly to communicate to Will that there are better things they could be exchanging than more questions. Will meets the pout with a pleading, puppyish expression of his own and Hannibal concedes that meeting one’s true match comes with the irritating side effect of not getting one’s way every time.

“You wear dampeners when you are in an environment where you might meet with people, but not here. Here your scent in its purest form is etched into every surface and I found myself… affected. Though I suspect,” he adds, tracing the line of a vein down Will’s arm and across the back of his hand, “that my reaction would not have been so powerful had I not already been entertaining certain feelings towards you.”

Will beams, apparently caught off guard by this admission and startled into delight. “Oh? Entertaining them how?”

“By conjuring the image of your teeth in my neck and your knot in my hole on an almost nightly basis.”

Will chokes a little and stares, wild-eyed, at the omega he has just mated, apparently unaware of the irony when he says, “We barely know each other.”

“Do we not?” Hannibal asks, turning his neck to bare his bonding mark as he slides his hands up Will’s thighs to stop just shy of his cock. Will whines and Hannibal decides to take a little pity on him. “Would it help if I mentioned that the first time I imagined this was during our first meeting in Jack’s office?”

Will takes a deep breath and redirects his attention from his dick back to Hannibal. “It… I… yes, weirdly. It means you might be at least as crazy as I am.”

“Perhaps even more so, darling.”

Will snorts, somewhat inelegantly, and then dissolves into giggles, leaving Hannibal bemused but enchanted by the sight of his mate’s levity. It takes several minutes for Will to recover from his fit of laughter but when he is finally calm, he looks at Hannibal with something almost eager in his expression.

“Would you like to know what _I_ was thinking the first time we met?” he asks.

“Given your reaction just now you may consider me wild with anticipation.”

Will takes Hannibal’s hand in his and lifts it to his mouth, brushing a kiss against the knuckles before speaking. “My first thought was, ‘This guy’s a killer and I bet we’ve got him on file.’”

Will holds Hannibal’s gaze with unflinching steadiness, perhaps waiting to see if Hannibal will snatch back his hand and simply break Will’s neck there and then. When Hannibal does nothing of the sort, merely blinks slowly, twice, he continues, blithely, “My second was, ‘I wonder if he’s single?’ Thank you for the copycat crime scene, by the way. I’ve never gotten a murder as a gift before.”

 _Now_ Hannibal reacts, his mouth dropping open in blank surprise.

“Took me until our second therapy session to figure out your _other_ other identity, I’ll admit. By the way, if kids are on the table – and it’s fine if they aren’t, it might be better actually, but if they _are_ then we’re gonna have to discuss your diet. The cannibalism thing doesn’t bother me particularly but I think we should give our children the chance to choose for themselves, don’t you? Otherwise they might decide to take matters into their own hands and, believe me, that doesn’t end well for anybody. Close your mouth, baby, you’ll catch flies.”

Hannibal does so, with a snap. He’s not entirely sure he didn’t die during his heat and has somehow found himself, entirely undeservingly, in some version of heaven where his every last dream comes true. Including Will Graham calling him pet names, apparently.

“Perhaps,” he says slowly, not wishing to disturb this unlikely scenario, “I could hold one final ‘special’ dinner party, in celebration of my new mate?”

Will sighs, but it seems more amused than irritated. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to socialising, huh? Ok, fine, so long as I can invite Jack and Alana. Maybe Beverly Katz too, I like her. I want people there I can actually talk to, and maybe if I spend the whole time discussing serial killers with Jack, I’ll scandalise so many of your friends they’ll never want to see me again.”

Hannibal treats this suggestion with exactly the contempt it deserves, glaring down at Will with the haughtiest expression he can muster.

Will merely shrugs, completely unfazed. “Still sure you want to be bonded to me?”

“No, Will, I am not.”

For the first time since his fit of laughter, Will’s face loses its cocky smirk and his body tenses beneath Hannibal’s.

Hannibal allows him to marinate in his own uncertainty for a moment – his fear adds an irresistible tang to his scent and Hannibal sees no problem in enjoying it a little longer. Then, cruel in his deliberateness, Hannibal eases himself down until his mouth is mere inches from Will’s and purrs into his beloved’s ear.

“In light of this new information, mate of mine, I believe I will have to marry you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, please go find Nonexistenz over on their [tumblr](https://nonexistenz.tumblr.com/) and give them all the love.
> 
> And if you feel like leaving some kudos or a comment I will love you everyday, forever <3<3<3 You can find my contact details [here](https://victorine.carrd.co/).


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